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I'd like to thank everyone for their kind comments and emails last week, and for being patient while I took a few days off to say goodbye to my great Uncle Robert Chomstein. The Navajo people knew him as Naadåa DaaNeéaNaa Néé, or "He Who Reeks of Bongwater", and although he was simply "Uncle Bob" to me, he was much more than just an uncle. He was a mentor. A sage. The last of a dying race of progressive giants who ushered in the civil rights movement with an enlightened cocktail of psychedelic drugs, free love, and congenital herpes.

Indeed, my own political philosophy has its roots in Uncle Bob's little geodesic dome on the banks of the Rio Grande, and my return to Santa Fe last weekend conjured up old childhood memories of summers spent frolicking naked amongst the pinyoned arroyos with the horned lizards, the mournful cries of ancient Pueblo ghosts shouting at me to get off their property floating on the warm New Mexico winds. Now, thanks to Bush's refusal to ratify Kyoto, the winds will sear the flesh right off your bones, and the pinyons have all gone the way of old man Zozobra - burned to ashes like so many civil liberties during a Republican administration.

An environmental and political activist before activism would get you a one-way ticket to Gitmo, Uncle Bob was deeply involved with the American Indian Movement, and it was not unusual to see such Native American heroes as Ward Churchill, Jane Fonda, and Skip Stevenson gathered around the family hooka on a warm summer night, the firelight seeming to deepen the lines in their noble Indian visages. War wounds, perhaps. Scars collected from a lifetime of suffering at the hands of offensive sports logos, racist cartoon characters, and humiliating cigar store sculptures.

Uncle Bob was also an accomplished Native American artist. Unlike the traitorous slime he had dubbed "Uncle Tomahawks", Bob refused to steal precious silver and turqouise from the sacred womb of Gaia. Instead, you'd find typically him at Santa Fe's vibrant Indian Market every weekend, peddling his charming kokopelli figurines fashioned from ear wax and cat turds. He was a regular fixture at the Plaza for many years, until the intolerant wasicu in the city health department forced him out of business. His passing, however, is certain to increase the value of his works, and I've already seen a few of his lint and pubic hair dreamweavers fetching upwards of six dollars a piece on eBay.

The last time I saw him, Uncle Bob was already showing signs of the senile dementia that would ultimately claim his life, and it made him an easy target for Republican hucksters and scam artists who prey on the weak and feeble. I can still recall poring through his piles of unopened utility statements to discover a $950 electricity bill. How a man who lived in a solar powered home could be charged that much for electricity was beyond me, but when I brought it to his attention he merely gave me his trademark toothless grin an nodded knowingly.

"Coyote workum for Enron," he'd say with a wink. "Now come, young papoose! We call Pow Wow. Have big backyard Fire Dance before DEA Kachinas findum basement crop of glaucoma medicine!" Even as his health failed him, Uncle Bob was always thinking of others. And hundreds came from all over the reservation last Friday to show their gratitude and pay him their final respects.

I guess I'm supposed to be impressed that the Shrub has asked Americans to stop driving - something progressives have been trying to force them to do for years. It seems that with prices at the pump shooting past three dollars a gallon, Bush has suddenly found himself in some deep political doo-doo - and now he expects us to come to his rescue. If he were a true leader, he'd pressure his Halliburton buddies to lower gas prices back to their Clinton-era 25 cents per gallon levels. Instead, he begs the American people to "conserve", thus placing the burden for his failed energy policies on the working poor. Well, I'm sorry, but I refuse to be a means to his twisted ends.

This weekend, some friends and I intend to throw a progressive monkey wrench into the Chimp's plans by consuming as much fuel as humanly possible. Operation: Drive Bush Out of Office! will consist of 40 to 100 Volkswagen vans driving in endless circles around the Seattle GOP headquarters, stopping only to refill our tanks and stock up on Twinkies and Fritos. If lower gas prices are to Bush's advantage, then it's our patriotic duty to give him the exact opposite. Only by depleting the national petroleum reserves and forcing gasoline prices UP can we finally "Drive Bush Out of Office" and bring an end to his illegal and immoral War for Oil.

I encourage all my readers to organize similar demonstrations in their own communities.
Your contribution to the cause doesn't have to be as inspired or grandiose as mine. Take the family on a long road trip. Leave your car idling in the driveway for hours on end. Stage a Quang Duc-style self-immolation in your front yard. Every little bit helps. Together, we can send Bush the clear message that we won't be manipulated for the political or financial benefit of his Big Oil masters.

Conjuring up images of bodies falling from the Twin Towers while Bush read a book about a girl to a pet goat, an old and poorly maintained chainlink fence collapsed at a Turtle Creek, PA high school football game last weekend, sending hundreds of frightened students tumbling helplessly six feet to the grass. It was a scene eerily reminiscent of New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, with many lower income teens left to fend for themselves while their wealthier peers cackled meniacally from plush luxury suites.

Democrats have already dubbed the tragedy "Bush's Hillsborough" and are demanding an immediate congressional investigation, followed by a series of further congressional investigations until Bush is finally found at fault. But if anything, the gruesome events at Turtle Creek are a brutal reminder of the great divide between America's rich and poor, and how Bush's irresponsible policies are deepening that rift. While the wealthiest 1% enjoy their lavish tax cuts, many schools like Turtle Creek will continue to lie in disrepair, and thousands more will suffer unsightly bruises and severe grass stains. As Americans, perhaps we should ask ourselves if we can continue to fund the war in Iraq, rebuild New Orleans, clean up after Turtle Creek, AND selfishly cling to our paychecks while there are so many poor and homeless people on TV.

The time has come for Bush to show that he can be a leader and mend fences as effectively as he can tear them down. Will he finally take reponsibility for his crimes, withdrawl our troops from Iraq, repeal his tax cuts, legalize marijuana, sanction same-sex marriage, and resign in shame? Or will he try to place the blame on Pennsylvania's governor, as he has everything else? If Bush's cold detachment from the Turtle Creek Massacre is any indication, I hold out little hope for the young people of Pennsylvania - or, for that matter, the world.

In case you were wondering what was up with my half-assed posts the past couple of days, there has been a death in the Chomstein family. I won't be blogging while I attend to funeral arrangements, drawing down of the sun and the moon, annointing of the ceremonial orifice, etc. When I return next week, I hope to be back to my regular full-assed blogging schedule.

"I think that my exchange with Nightcrawler out in the campground was sort of the backbone of what the theme behind the X-Men is. That's what the message is all about, about tolerance and taking in pride in differences and not trying to blend in." - Rebecca Romijn

Anyone who has ever been treated differently because of their skin color, or because they weren't "chic" enough or tall enough, or whatever - knows the humiliation I felt yesterday as I was chased out of Frederick's of Hollywood by mall security. Unless I woke up in Bush's dream of a puritan state, "lurking" and "ogling" were not yet capital offenses. Frederick's may think they can get away with their fascist policy of hateful intolerance, but I'll be taking my business over to Victoria's Secret, where lurking and ogling is treated with resigned acceptance.

The current cover of Newsweek bears the heartbreaking image of a crying African American child, with the chilling header "A Nation's Enduring Shame". Not "pride" in the national outpouring of generosity and compassion that came all too slowly in Katrina's wake, but SHAME for the thousands of blacks who were left to drown while even the poorest whites were chaffeured out of town in stretch limos stocked with beluga caviar and Dom Perignon.

Known and admired for its rich history of tolerance and inclusion, France is suddenly wallowing in the unshaven armpit of shame itself, for Oprah Winfrey was denied entrance to a posh Paris boutique purely on account of her race. Thousands visit the Hermes stores every year. One would think that if the store had a policy of excluding blacks, someone would have complained about it by now. But the deafening silence of African-Parisians over their exclusion from Mermes only underscores the pervasive climate of fear that white Europeans have used to intimidate minorities for generations. It's the same sort of fear that keeps blacks from the polls every election. It's the very same gut-wrenching terror that paralyzed New Orleans' Mayor Nagin when our white peeResident demanded he "EVACUATE THE CITY! EVACUATE THE CITY! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, EVACUATE THE CITY!"

Mayor Nagin must have heard the ancient rattle of chains and crack of the overseer’s whip in that thick Texas drawl. Certainly, Oprah heard them when she was brusquely turned away from Hermes like some average slob. But to Hermes' chagrin, Oprah would not go down without a fight. On the premiere of her syndicated TV talk show, she implored her loyal legion of angry, obese housewives to refrain from buying any $350 silk scarves or $750 purses from the racist boutique until justice was served. Hermes balked at first, claiming that the store was in the process of closing when Oprah arrived. But certainly Phil Donahue or Maury Povich would have been given preferential treatment in the exact same set of circumstances. After the enormous girth of Oprah’s celebrity power bore down on them, Hermes officials issued an apology, and assured Oprah that had they known who she was, they would have had a team of eunuchs carry her around the store like the Queen of Sheba.

*snap snap* You go grrrrrrrrrl!!!

After all, isn’t that what any of us want? Isn’t that what any of us deserve? Because of Oprah’s terrifying experience, she can now sympathize with the millions of lesser blacks who have suffered through generations of racial injustice in a system created by whites for that express purpose. And while her one small victory is a triumph for multi-millionaire TV divas everywhere, it is up to progressives such as ourselves to exploit the Katrina tragedy by demanding an immediate end to Bush’s tax cuts. Only after we’ve completely milked it dry for our own political benefit, can America finally be cleansed of its “enduring national shame".

In the terrible aftermath of Hurricane KKKatrina, the nation watched with renewed horror - if not a certain sense of schadenfreude - as Hurricane Ophelia bore down on the white republican stronghold of Florida. Then she suddenly veered away, no doubt after a late night phone call from Brother Jeb to Brother Shrub, and made a beeline for North Carolina and its 1.5 million Blacks. Now, Bush's latest hurricane is targeting the Florida Keys, specifically Key West, admired for its vibrant gay community and vociferous opposition to George Bush.

Bush's infamous intolerance for diversity is about to claim its next round of victims. Even as New Orleans slowly recovers, Bush's "cleansing" of the Keys has already begun. The doors and windows on hundreds of gay discos have been boarded up. Thousands of frightened citizens have already pranced to higher ground, with thousands more certain to flounce, flit, or sashay away in the coming hours. Once the storm has passed and the giant cloud of purple feathers and dimpled chads has settled, Bush will be free to build his own Gulag Archipelago - a string of miniature Guantanamos where Muslim same-sex couples and flamboyantly gay freedom fighters will be held without due process.

A new scandal is rocking the White House, one sure to leave a bright yellow stain on the peeResidency for years to come - and this time the digital brownshirts won't be able to spin it under the rug like they did with the Texas National Guard memos. According to newly released photographic evidence, Bush attempted to interrupt a UN Security Council meeting with a taxpayer-funded bathroom break.

It's bad enough that the Shrub vacations for 9 months out of the year, but does he have to urinate on my dime as well? Do the math, folks. Bush's salary is $400,000 a year, or 76 cents a minute. Let's say he takes six pee breaks a day at three minutes each - five minutes if he pees sitting down like Oliver Willis. Perhaps we should ask ourselves if we can really afford to continue the war in Iraq, AND pay Bush over $7,000 a year to use the loo.

Say what you will about Bill Clinton, but he never allowed his natural urges to interfere with his job. Al Gore hasn't had a bowel movement in over 17 years. Yet Bush apparently thinks he can piss away our hard earned money whenever nature calls.

Well, I say enough is enough. 3,000 American died because the Shrub was too busy reading about a pet goat to do his job. Another 10,000 have gone missing in New Orleans, most likely because Bush was taking a "bathroom break" when Mayor Nagin called begging for help. I stand with Senator Biden's call for an immediate congressional investigation into the Tinklegate scandal. Bush must be held accountable for his bodily functions, before any more innocent lives are lost.

Arsenic in the drinking water. The downing of a Chinese jet over international airspace. The 9/11 attacks. The outing of Valerie Plame. Abu Ghraib. AIDS. Slavery. Bad weather. Monicagate. Bitburg. The rise and fall of the tides. Throughout his entire peeResidency, Bush has refused to take responsibility for any of his crimes against humanity. Now, out of the clear blue, he suddenly offers up a half-assed mea culpa for his miniature version of the Holocaust? I'm not buying it. Who is he protecting? What's he trying to hide? What's his ANGLE?

I am reminded of an incident here at Seattle Hemp Products a year or so ago, when someone put a sheet of blotter acid into the coffee maker. There was an investigation, and the culprit turned out to be none other than my personal assistant, Achmed Jones. Achmed took "full responsibility" for his actions, offered a teary-eyed apology, and all was forgiven. Once all the vindictive, finger-pointing nastiness has been dispensed with, everyone had a good laugh over the whole affair - not to mention a fantastic light show complete with a dancing panda who claimed to be God. But when the technicolor squirrels finally vanished, so did Achmed - with about $50,000 earmarked for the Bong Hit Special Olympics.

The Shrub may certainly hope that we'll all "Move On" after his little performance yesterday. But only after he has been impeached and imprisoned can time begin to heal the tragically harshed mellows of the over 93 Downs Syndrome sufferers who won't be competing under the Giant Flaming Hooka in Berkeley this year.